


For the Dancing and the Dreaming

by evil_bunny_king



Series: The Dancing and the Dreaming [4]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Halloween Costumes, Nathaniel you tease, Oneshot collection, The sweetness, all the kisses, howls moving castle - Freeform, kisses behind the ear, the damned sweetness of it all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/pseuds/evil_bunny_king
Summary: The text comes:[Nate]I enjoy thinking of you.[Dinah Batra]I like that you think of me.[Nate]I’m glad.[Nate]I would think of you, as often and as much as you would allow.--1: Research2: Kiss behind the ear3: It's the mayor's autumn gala. Halloween themed this year, as a treat.4. Nate and the crop top (part 1)5. Love letters / valentine's day
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: The Dancing and the Dreaming [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053032
Comments: 30
Kudos: 55





	1. Research

Nate leans back against her filing cabinet in her office at the station. She can feel the steadiness of his gaze even while bent over the book she’s been pointedly skimming for the last half hour. “But why _not_ research, Dinah? You’re skilled at it, as it is.”

“Nate.” She feels her fingers tap against the page and she spreads them flat to stop the motion, framing a paragraph she’s reread twice already. She doesn’t look up. “I’m already taking night classes. I do not have the energy to add more _studying_ on top of-”

“Technically,” and he draws out the word, his voice warm, pitched for compelling, “it will only aid your own research. Add greater depth, context, to some of the case studies you’ve been puzzling.” He pushes away and steps closer to crane over the desk, his hands settling comfortably on her shoulders as he leans around her to see the books strewn there.

She feels the warm brush of his chest against her shoulder, and then his hum of interest as he skims the chapter she has open: a particularly unusual cold case from LA in the 50s.

“For instance, this one-”

She cuts him off before he can finish his sentence, twisting around in her seat until she can stare up at him.

“You’re telling me that there are supernatural elements to these cases,” she states. “Unresolved, long cold cases.”

His lips twitch as he tries to contain his smile. “Sometimes. Maybe not this one in particular, but-”

“And you have said knowledge… because you were somehow instrumental in making sure that they remained unsolved?”

The twitch slips into a badly concealed grin, guilty and somehow pleadingly endearing. “Perhaps. Which is _why_ I’m suggesting researching with me.” He tilts his head towards her, his thumbs idly smoothing over her shoulders, his gaze flicking over her features. She pretends not to notice how he lingers for a moment on her lips before he meets her eye again. “For extra - context,” he finishes. “Into how the agency has handled these and other such cases.”

She stares up at him, unblinking. He smiles back, all charming creases at the corners of his eyes, and she is powerless, before that.

She lets out an undignified noise and flips her book shut. He laughs and slides his palms down her arms, drawing her back against him, dipping his head to place a soft kiss against her forehead. Her eyes flutter shut despite herself. She’s _most certainly_ not pouting.

“Unethical,” she mutters, nonetheless. He hums something that could be a laugh and moves to nuzzle her temple, and she can’t deny the way her breath catches, light and warm in her chest.

“Unfortunate,” he murmurs into her hairline, his lips brushing her skin, drawing out a shiver. He presses a kiss there in return. “But necessary.”

Another kiss, to her cheekbone this time, and what was a flutter starts to settle into something warmer and brighter and … utterly distracting her from the conversation they’d been attempting to have.

She pulls his hands in hers, wrapping his arms around her and holding him there and she feels his smile against her cheek, the vibration of his chuckle against her back. He pulls her close, tucking her head under his chin for a comfortable moment and she feels the tension from being hunched over a desk all day ease, shoulders sinking against him.

All too soon he pulls away, pressing a final kiss to the top of her head before releasing her.

“Think about it,” he says, and it takes her a second to remember that he means the _research_. Her books lay, half forgotten, over the paper-strewn mess of her desk. “It is, of course, your choice.”

He steps away and back around the desk, back towards the closed door of her office. She shivers at the loss of his warmth - and then jolts as she remembers, with sudden, awful realisation, that her office blinds are currently still slanted _open_. The general bustle of the station continues beyond the confines of her office, sleepily busy in the midday sun that pours through the front doors. A lunchtime bustle. The lunch she was supposed to spend studying and instead had spent cuddling. _In public_.

She wants to- bury her head in her arms in mortification; go hide out in the basement for the week with Verda, even if, for some strange miracle, her slip of professionalism with the _visiting agency representative_ doesn’t seem to have registered with the outside world. Nate, however, seems completely oblivious to her distress. He pauses by the correct side of her desk before he goes, fingers settling on the cover of another of her books, tilting it until he can read the cover.

“I must admit, though,” he starts, and his voice pitched low, contemplative. His gaze flicks up to hers. “I would appreciate all of the time I could spend in your company. Intimately.”

He holds her gaze from under his long lashes, a promise in the slow spread of his smile - and then sweeps calmly from the room.

She blinks at the closing door. Her heart trips in her chest, completely discomposed and after a moment she presses a hand to the blush warming her cheeks, trying to will it away.

_Damn him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a belated birthday gift for the wonderful @detectivegreene on tumblr. Please go ply her with treats and love, she deserves it all!
> 
> Something light and sweet before we hit Wayhaven Week.


	2. Two hands that fit in your hands (eyes like your eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Borrowed ejunkiet's Emma for this one; for day 14 Wayhaven Month - prompt: Throat. ;)

Nate presses the kiss like a gift below her ear, an echo of the one he'd given her at her apartment all those months ago. His hand is at her waist, an impression of warmth, of weight. His other hand skates lightly, so lightly, down the line of her arm, past her elbow to her wrist before he threads his fingers through hers, using the joint grip to tug her closer. 

Emma sways forward, away from the threshold of her warehouse bedroom, breathing unsteadily as his mouth moves slowly lower. He finds the chain of her necklace, nipping at it briefly with his teeth. The curve where her neck meets her shoulder. The edge of her collarbone, where her collar has slipped, and his mouth is so warm and so soft and oh, so fleeting.

It's rare that he touches her like this: her neck, her throat. It's an unspoken rule; something she's stored away, meant to ask him - and she will, she will, but when _he touches her like this-_

He's drawing the line of his nose back up her throat, his exhale sending chills across her skin before the heat of his mouth and she shivers in his light grip, her hand squeezing around his.

She feels his smile before he takes another breath, as unsteady as her own. His grip tightens at her waist, a hint of promise in the touch - and the rest of unit bravo could be pulling out foldable chairs in front of them, divvying out cartons of popcorn to watch and she couldn't have given less of a damn.

And then- he draws away, swaying backwards, leaving her cold and bereft in her doorway.

She blinks her eyes back open - when had she closed them? - and looks up at him, slightly dazed and more than a little flushed.

He looks back at her, his gaze heavy-lidded, molten bronze in the dim sconce light of the hallway. He's as affected as she is, a warmth to his cheeks and his shirt rumpled at the collar - oh, that must have been her and her wandering hands, before he'd caught them - and she smiles, warmly pleased, even as she raises an eyebrow in question.

Nate draws their joined hands up between them and presses a kiss to her fingers, holding her eye all the while and she can't deny what that look does to her.

"Goodnight, Emma," he murmurs. She feels his smile, slow and broad before he makes to step away and, wait, _no_ -

"No," she repeats aloud, articulately. She tugs him back, her other hand reaching for his shirt collar again and holding him there, indignant. "You don't get to do that and then _just_ -"

She pulls and he goes willingly, his hand slipping to her cheek, his fingertips in her hair and then he bends to her and kisses her properly, smiling into her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I actually have every intention of writing more for this prompt as warm ups/ warm downs because it has _so much potential_ )
> 
> Forgot the song the title is from: Arcadian Wild - Summer: Walk
> 
> _...I sense a lonesome life's a burdened one  
>  Take your slumber, you'll awake to eyes like your eyes  
> Two hands that fit in your hands_


	3. Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the mayor's autumn gala. Halloween themed, this year, as a treat.

"You don't have to attend," Dinah mumbles into Nate's chest. She's curled against him outside the warehouse, during one of their longer goodbyes (the ones she loves, the ones where neither of them seem able to let go, not just yet, and Farah teases unbearably and Ava -even Ava! - rolls her eyes and smiles).

He's let her slip her arms beneath his leather jacket and she's wrapped them around his back, burrowing away from the autumn chill, his smile pressed against the top of her head as he holds her just as close. Her feet are already frozen, but she'd suffer much worse than lose this moment. 

She could stand here with him until long after the sun finally set, she thinks. The long shadows are already encroaching upon her car.

"Why wouldn't I?" he murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble beneath her ear.

She'd meant the local town hall Halloween gala; a compulsory event for Wayhaven's 'Finest' and their plus ones. He'd enjoyed that, being asked to be her _date_ , to the point that she was almost even starting to look forward to it.

 _Almost_.

But all of the mayor's events are as slick and schmoozy as the man who arranged them (and his sharp, bitter wife) and as charming and more than capable of handling small town politics as Nate is, she's not sure she wants…

To share him, if she's frankly honest with herself.

He hums questioningly when she doesn't answer, the two of them swaying in the makeshift driveway of the warehouse with the autumn leaves spinning around them like lovestruck fools (she feels like one).

He smells sweet, like sugared almonds and the rich subtlety of his cologne.

He tightens his arms around her, dipping to place a kiss against her hair and then does it again, for good measure, when she sighs. Her laugh hums through them both.

"Mm. They are not... the most interesting people." Her fingers are knotted in the back of his shirt; she'd rather not untangle them. "It'll be dull. And you'll most certainly get mobbed."

"Mobbed?" 

She pulls a face. "You're fresh meat. They'll be on you the moment you take a foot through the door - they'll mob us both and we'll spend hours stuck feet away from the canapes being droned at, and even with all your charms, you won't be able to escape."

A rumble of a laugh, again.

"Then we'd best not be recognised."

"I think, even in costume," she says to his collarbone, dryly, "all six foot four of you would be hard to mistake. It's a really small town."

One of his palms is pressed against her upper back, below her shoulder blades. She could melt as he smooths it down over the thin back of her jacket and back, so deliciously warm.

"I'm thankful, then," he says, voice pitched deliberately low and compelling. She can hear his smile. "That I'll at least have my detective there to protect me."

She pulls away to look up at him and he raises a brow, unrelenting. There's a light in his eye that- she can't deny she loves it as much as it means that he's being his version of a little shit.

"You're intractable," is what she says.

"Persistent,” he counters. “And charming, you said."

She scoffs, despite the blush she can now feel rising against her cheeks. "You know that you are."

His grip around her tightens. "I still like to hear you say it."

She can’t hold his gaze for her burning cheeks. She has been smoothly and soundly defeated on all possible fronts and she succumbs with something like a sigh and falls into his chest again. His arms fold around her, shaking with laughter.

“I don't have to go, if you don't wish me too,” he says, after a comfortable pause, speaking against her hair. “Neither of us do, if you’d like - we can plead other obligations, sudden, dramatic illness.”

Oh, she wishes. But also- "You've already prepared your costume."

It's not a question, because of course he has. His expression had lit up like a Christmas tree at the mention of a theme, and the way he shifts on his feet now confirms it.

“We can find other occasions to wear it,” he starts, and she shakes her head, nuzzling unabashedly into his shirt. If she has to put herself through this… well, misery loves company. Selfish as it is.

“No. No, it will be fine." Then again, firmer. "We'll go.”

“Okay.” Another indulgent, full-body sway. He pecks a kiss on the top of her head. “My _Sophie_.”

Nate is a studio Ghibli fan, she’d discovered, and _Howl’s Moving Castle_ in particular _._ His archive of VHS tapes is both hilarious and disarmingly charming, and when he'd heard there was a theme he'd suggested they coordinate their outfits for it - to provide a united front, had been his cover, but he'd had the same bright-eyed smile that he'd had when she'd asked him to be her _date_ and she hadn't been able to deny him, even if she'd wanted to.

“You’re a doofus,” she says, but eventually, reluctantly, she pulls herself free. She drags herself to her car and drives the short distance (oceans) back to her apartment.

\--

The night of the Gala arrives with the glory of a blue moon. She walks to the town hall from the carpark, her heels clipping out against the quiet of the settling chill. She's wearing the smartly tailored suit that she’d borrowed from Ava, after an evening at the warehouse spent fruitlessly scanning suit rental websites.

( _Agent du Mortain_ , she’d breathed after following Ava to the well-stocked walk-in closet in her bedroom. Ava had cocked an eyebrow at her before walking unerringly to a corner apparently dedicated solely to her tailored suits.

"I've known Nate for over 300 years," is all she says, dryly, pressing a day suit, complete with waistcoat, into her hands.)

Pinned hems at her ankles and a smart pair of heels later and she climbs the few steps leading to the hall, stationing herself in the spill of light to the right of the doors.

She'd agreed to meet him here rather than her apartment - it made more sense than folding him into her car for the ten minute drive down the street and through the traffic lights. Just in case, she's left her car at the precinct; she'll get a cab home, if it comes to it; or rather, she'd walk - it's one of those rare, crisp autumn evenings, where a fog curls about the moon, blurring the stars, brisk enough that the fallen leaves crunch underfoot.

She may well be hoping she'd have company, too. Warm hands and long smiles and all.

Nate emerges twenty minutes later, that little bit late, striding from the side alley that led to the outskirts of town and the woods beyond.

And he is resplendently, gloriously _Howl_.

He is shadow and moonlight: the white of his shirt stark against the black velvet cloak he's drawn around himself. There are feathers sewn into the shoulders, blue-black and glossy under the streetlights. Crow, maybe. His hair is unbound, curling in the breeze.

“Nate,” she whispers on a breath, despite herself.

It's enough. His head turns as he crosses the road and strides up the pavement- long legs and the slim fit of his dress trousers, his shirt tucked lazily into the high-waist - and she can't deny the warmth she feels catching her alight at the way he smiles when he finds her.

"Dinah," he says, as he reaches her, and then, appraisingly: "This was not quite the pairing I had in mind."

She grins at him, wickedly pleased but also - helplessly distracted.

He's taken the time to paint feathers along his cheekbones, vibrant indigo against the warmth of his brown skin. They trace down to the curve of his jaw, flicking into his hairline with a dedication to detail that must have taken _time_ \- and she can picture that- picture the care he'd taken, brushstroke by brushstroke, lips parted in concentration.

Those same lips smile at her, slow and curving. His fingers trail down her arm until he reaches her wrist and then he raises her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. His long fingers are traced with sweeps of blue and black, vivid as ink. He doesn't look away.

"You look stunning," he says.

She swallows against a suddenly dry mouth (and his smile widens). "Thank you. So do you."

And his free hand moves to the lapel of her borrowed suit, following it to the large bow she's tied around her neck in ribbon and she feels him tease the silken ends of it, a slight tug at her neck.

"I had the lines memorised, you know," he says, tracing the knot, his fingertips brushing her throat in the process, just so lightly. She suppresses a shiver, her breath catching. The slight flutter of his eyelashes is all the sign he gives that he notices. "And you dress up as the scarecrow."

"A cursed prince, actually," she corrects on a slightly giddy grin. His fingers are still at her neck. "Which lines?"

She tilts her head back just slightly, inviting more touch and just remembering to stabilise her over-sized top hat with her other hand before it topples to the floor (that, she'd sourced from the local fancy dress store). And oh, her breath catches in her chest when he acquiesces, his fingertips drifting up the line of her neck, his thumb finding her chin. His gaze flicks to hers again, a slight flush to his cheeks against the cool of the night. His pupils are broad and black, or maybe that's just the shadow of the streetlights.

"Howl's," he says, with a voice that is slightly huskier than it was. "When he meets Sophie that first time: _There you are, sweetheart._ " He's answering her question, she realises belatedly. He tweaks the shape of the bow, a subtle tug that she feels through the knot. " _Sorry I'm late, I was looking everywhere for you._ "

She blinks and then laughs, breath warm against the evening as that clicks into place and he grins at her, boyish. The hand at her neck falls away. She immediately misses it.

"You were almost late on purpose."

"I was."

"By a grand total of five minutes."

He shrugs, the feathers at his shoulders fluttering in the breeze.

She tips her head back with a smile that threatens to overwhelm her, reading the meaning into that - that his point had been made, that he'd be loathe to be later. This time she really almost loses the hat. "You are ridiculous."

His smile crinkles the sweetly downturned corners of his eyes. "I am, with you."

A couple pushes past them, disappearing through the hall doors, the sound of polite applause filtering out after them. The reminder washes over the two of them, and she feels a sigh swell in her chest. The major's opening speech is in full swing and really they should be joining them, as thrilling as the prospect is.

His hand in hers tightens again, almost as if he could sense her frown (it's quite possible that she is actually pouting), and she folds her hand over his, infinitely grateful that he's here. And then she tucks his hand around the crook of her elbow. He is _her_ _date_ , after all.

"Well.” She clears her throat and straightens her shoulders. “Are you ready, Agent Sewell? I can't guarantee we'll make it out in one piece."

That brilliant smile again, unhesitating. "I am."

The top of her head (sans magnificent hat) just barely grazes the top of his chin, but he still lets her pull him after her, falling in step as she leads them towards the doors. Another smattering of unenthusiastic applause greets them as they push through the polished glass into the flood of light - but his hand is warm under her own, his voice pitched low in her ear for her and her alone.

"You've yet to compliment my feathers, you know.” Tickets are checked, their lack of bags ascertained. “I am quite vain, for a wizard."

"They are wonderful," she murmurs as the stewards wave them through at last to the doors at the other side of the foyer. She must be barely audible above their scuffed footsteps on the old carpeting. "As you are wonderful. You should know that."

His laugh is little more than a breath. "Oh _azizam_ , but I live to hear you say it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate hate titles akjdgndasdga
> 
> Lucky gave me the prompt halloween costumes and mismatching expectations (with spicy follow up) and let's say that door is definitely wedged open-
> 
> Wow I'm giving them a heck of a honeymoon period aren't I, relationship wise? Let's lean into it shall we-
> 
> HALLOWEEN COSTUMES:  
> Nate as [partially transformed Howl ](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/FZqrdWkkSnk/maxresdefault.jpg)(from Studio Ghiblis' Howl's Moving Castle) - and he does indeed quote Howl’s introductory lines to Sophie (the sap)  
> Dinah as [Turnip Head](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/9a/d3/b7/9ad3b7a3444ac48579f94f805eef2ea8.gif), the enchanted scarecrow/prince  
> Nate was thinking/hoping she'd dress up as Sophie, the protagonist and Howl's great love - but oh, that would be too easy
> 
> I love @ejunkiet 's headcanon about Nate and his VHS collection and we've agreed it's canon now


	4. Crop top (opening salvo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt like some sweetness. Nate and the crop top, round 1 (yes, there are multiple parts).

The cloth doesn’t quite stretch in his hands, soft as it is, when he holds it up against himself. He doesn’t need the mirror. He can quite easily see that it doesn’t fall far past his ribs, and as long limbed as he may (now) be, he’s not sure it would _ever_ have reached far enough.

“This?” he asks Farah, the slightest hint of incredulity breaking into his tone, alongside the quirk of his eyebrow.

The younger vampire rocks forward onto the balls of her feet and then her toes, reaching up to shift the ‘sweater’ higher over his shoulders - and good god, if he wore it like this his navel would be showing, and while he isn’t _averse_ to such a thing, not by any means, the fact that this is _knitwear-_

Farah’s bubblegum pink lips purse in thought before she pops them indulgently, falling back onto her heels and leaving him holding the partial-sweater. “You know,” she says, tilting her head until one of her buns brushes her shoulder. “I don’t think this is it.”

He allows the smile that has been threatening to smooth out his features. “I would think not,” he says, and lets her whisk the shirt away, disappearing once more amongst the clothing racks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crop top Nate, round 2, is going well.


	5. love letters (Valentine's day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Left on the detective’s desk, a single red rose and a note written in precise handwriting:
> 
> _Dinah,_
> 
> _To see you smile is the greatest gift._  
>  Happy Valentine’s Day

_Dinah_.

She finds the rose and the letter only when she reaches her desk, take-away coffee in hand.

Pausing a moment, she lowers her bag and then the coffee, circling the desk. She nudges her desk chair backwards.

Unlikely to be Tina, she’d be louder - Verda would choose daffodils- and so…?

Carefully, she picks up the card, drawing it gently from beneath the vase. She recognises the script - of course she does. The flourish of the pen at her name - and she can imagine the way he'd say it, the way he'd tap the end of the pen against his lips, perhaps, thinking between lines.

_To see you smile is the greatest gift._

Pressing her knuckles against that same smile, she slips into her seat and pulls out her phone, typing out a quick text.

[Dinah Batra] _I've got a secret admirer._

A minute later - she puts her phone down, watching the typing ellipsis dance - Nate's response comes. Three words.

[Nate] _Is that so?_

She hums to herself, another smile warming her cheeks as she blinks down at her phone. She pushes her hair back behind her ear. It falls back, forever errant, to bounce against her cheek. If Tina or - god forbid - Douglas happened to come by her office right now, they'd see her grinning like a fool. Thankfully, they don't.

She types another response.

[Dinah Batra] _Yes  
_ [Dinah Batra] _They make quite a good case for themselves too_

The rose sits in a simple, thin-necked vase - a prettily-glazed ceramic, off white to complement the red of the rose. It is an ornament made to hold one flower and one flower only and normally she'd call it beautiful and pointless - why bother, when a wine bottle would do just as well?

(She's done that before- white lilies, already bloomed, rescued from a local flower market. The sticky amber pollen had stained her hands saffron for a week.)

This time, though. This time she doesn't think she minds that much.

Nate's response comes, and she imagines the warmth of his voice as she reads it, the dip of his tone.

[Nate] _And what did this admirer of yours gift to you?_

[Dinah Batra] _a rose. And also… a letter._

[Nate] _Will you write back?_

Is that what he wants? She laughs, although she half-fears he's serious. She does not have his way with words, and she doesn’t write letters. She doesn’t write much like this, at all (he makes her want to, though).

[Dinah Batra] _What would I write?_

[Nate] _Perhaps look at it this way.  
_ [Nate] _Did you enjoy it?_

She hums again, curled over her phone. Her laptop is still closed, her emails probably queueing up. They can wait.

[Dinah Batra] _Yes, I did.  
_ [Dinah Batra] _Very much, in fact.  
_ [Dinah Batra] _Enough that…_

[Nate] _Enough?_

She doesn’t respond, smiling again, warmth and something else, something daring, tightening her stomach, and after a little while, he starts typing again.

[Nate] _...I could be jealous that a letter could consume you so.  
_ [Nate] _As it is,  
_ [Nate] _I wonder, Dinah._

 _Dinah_. She can hear him say it, deliberate, teasing and tender at the same time.

[Nate] _What else might capture your attention so._

She looks down at her phone, that _something_ coiling tighter, delightful.

[Dinah Batra] _Chocolate, perhaps._

She imagines his laugh, the memory of it (she pretends she’s not blushing, that she’s not warmer than she should be, her cold fingers pressed to her cheek and the pull of her smile).

She wonders where he might be, right now. The kitchen of the warehouse, maybe, escaping the winter chill. In his room, the book he’d been reading set aside and his back to the headboard and his phone cradled in his open palm, each message to her picked out, letter by letter.

The ellipsis dances.

[Nate] _That can certainly be arranged._

(He’d have his sleeves rolled up, maybe. In the grey henley that she likes so much - his dark hair tousled, curling at his brow, and his lips parting softly around the words he sends her-)

[Nate] _But I was thinking something… more.  
_ [Nate] _I enjoy thinking of you._

Her breathing changes, sinks lower, deeper.

[Dinah Batra] _I like that you think of me._

[Nate] _I’m glad.  
_ [Nate] _I would think of you, as often and as much as time and you would allow._

[Dinah Batra] _how do you think of me, Nate?_

He takes longer, this time. She toys with the plastic lid of her coffee, leaves a lipstick mark on the rim when she takes a sip. Removes the rose from the vase and spins it between her fingers.

[Nate] _I think of your mouth._

Her fingers still.

He’s still typing.

[Nate] _Your smile. Your breath, shared, halved, pulled between us.  
_ [Nate] _I think… of your clever tongue.  
_ [Nate] _Do you think of me, Dinah?  
_ [Nate] _I hop_

He’s pressed enter too soon. 

[Nate] _...I hope that you do._

She can imagine his laughter, self-deprecating and mildly frustrated.

[Dinah Batra] _I do._

Another pause.

[Nate] _And how  
_ [Nate] _do you think of me?_

Flattening her palm against the desk with a faint slap, she gives up on resistance and picks her phone back up, dialing and waiting those long, heavy seconds as it rings, and rings, a flush creeping up her cheeks and her heart full in her chest.

He picks up after only three rings, this time, and she hears the scuffle of him manoeuvring the phone before the warmth of his laughter becomes clear beneath her ear. Laughing. He's laughing. "Hello, Dinah."

"Agent Sewell," she begins, attempting to keep her tone severe, although even she can hear how she's smiling. She presses her hand to her warm cheeks, and she grins, and she wishes, she wishes she was somewhere else, right now. "It is nine in the morning."

"So it seems,” he says, on a laugh, before- “Would you like me to stop?"

His voice drops low, sinfully smooth, unrepentant. It's _unfair_ how he does that.

She spins herself a little in her desk chair, and feels happy and reckless. "Where are you right now, Sewell?"

He laughs again, freely, and she can picture his delighted grin. "At the warehouse, but I can-"

"You should," she says, stilling her feet to push her chair out from the desk. "We have - _items_ \- to discuss. At the office."

"Of course," he says, and his tone is warm, affectionate, softening in that way that means _anything_. "I can be there in twenty minutes."

“Fifteen,” she says, and hangs up.

He arrives exactly on time, bright eyed and fresh-faced and only slightly ruffled from the run - although a few mismatched buttons on his overshirt betray him, a stray spot of shaving cream at the corner of his jaw, easily thumbed away.

He lets her lead him to her office (she’s pulled the blinds closed) and then he lets her know, thoroughly, comprehensively, just what his thoughts are on the matter of letters, and texting, and hung-up phone calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meggers is the most wonderful for sending this prompt over, and I am a SAP (I just love these two, so much)

**Author's Note:**

> For the Dancing and the Dreaming is such an N song. Ridiculous, sweet vampire. These stories are equally ridiculous and sweet.
> 
> I realise I now have 4 separate N Sewell oneshot collections, if you're interested in more ;)  
> 1\. Fun, romantic shorts ([For the Dancing and the Dreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192516/chapters/61056040))  
> 2\. _spicy_ shorts ([Natural Philosophy)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25756792/chapters/62551120)  
> 3\. love letters ([Vanilla, Bergamot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25981189/chapters/63163873))  
> 4\. Historical/time travel shorts, Poly!AU with Ava/Dinah/Nate, spanning 300 years ([deltangam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27542269/chapters/67359454))


End file.
